Today I came across an image of a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier.

A high-speed camera captured the exact instant it surpassed Mach 1, the shockwaves forming a perfect cone around the aircraft. A split second made eternal, pausing what would otherwise be missed.

Camera technology amazes me. As advancements keep pushing the limits, we can freeze-frame even the fastest movements. No blur, just breathtaking detail.

Every Christmas, we listen to Michael W. Smith’s song, “Freeze The Frame.” The chorus always gets me:

Can we freeze the frame
And stop the hands of time?
Make the moon stand still in the sky?
My only wish this Christmas Eve
Is that we could all remain forever here
Can we freeze the frame?

That’s why I write this blog. What cameras do for motion, stories do for time. They lasso a moment from an ordinary day before it slips into the haze of memory.

If you feel life is flying by too fast, slow it down.

Record a story from each day.

Freeze the frame.

Like most people who breathe oxygen, I watched the Super Bowl last night.

But it’s never really about the game as much as those in the room. So we welcomed a few friends to the house for the annual spectacle of glitzy celebrities, eight-million-dollar commercials, and oh yeah… football.

But, oddly enough, Super Bowls make me think of my kids. And I realized something. It was the first time in over two decades that at least one of them wasn’t by my side.

As I munched on tortilla chips, a couple of memories came rushing back:

Twelve years ago, I took my three young boys — Luke, Jake, and Sam — to a Super Bowl party in a church gym. This gave Jess a well-earned break and the guys a fun adventure.

The men’s ministry had turned a basketball court into a massive viewing area. We unfolded our summer beach chairs, devoured pizza, and watched the game projected onto a wall. It was a blast. Simple pleasures, perfect evening.

I also think of my oldest daughter, McKenzie. During her middle school years, she operated her “Sports Diner” on Super Bowl Sundays. With the help of her sister Kate, she would create menus, take our food orders, and then serve an array of treats on fancy plates. It was the most exclusive restaurant in town. She spoiled us, and we enjoyed the five-star goodies more than the football.

The winners of those games? They’ve faded like old newspaper headlines.

But the faces around me, the laughter, the traditions we built — those moments remain perfectly preserved.

Every Christmas morning, it happens on our stairwell.

Before we unwrap a single present, my kids gather for a photo. An annual tradition, a snapshot of time. And seemingly overnight, in the blink of an eye, they’ve grown from little ones to adults.

How did it happen so fast? I dunno. But the photos don’t lie.

Those same stairs hold other stories, too. Like the night my daughter, McKenzie, broke her foot on the final step. A painful moment, yet it unexpectedly led her to the man she would marry.

Amid all the change, all of life’s movements, one thing remains steady: those stairs.

When the house sits silent, when miles separate us, I sometimes pause by those empty steps and look up, wondering where everyone is and what they’re doing.

There’s something powerful about a home. They are the containers of memories. Every room, every worn floorboard, every quiet corner and scuffed wall holds the echoes of the past.

Homes are reminders of the relentless march of time. And their familiar spaces forever link us to the ones we love.

Last night, Jessica suggested we watch the movie, Here. I wasn’t too excited after reading a few negative reviews.

But wow… what an experience. Perhaps brilliant.

The film explores how time is a function of our relationship with the physical world. And how the seconds, the minutes, the decades… pass in a breath.

It’s not your typical blockbuster, but it offers a unique approach to cinematic storytelling. Art that moves the soul. Most movies are immediately forgettable. But this one? It stays.

As the last scene faded to black and the credits rolled, three thoughts grabbed me: 1) life is short 2) so live with vision 3) and allow the quietness of an old house to remind you of these things.

So here’s my suggestion: Every once in a while, put down the phone. Sit in your favorite chair. Let the walls, the furniture, the spaces speak.

Because in those memories, the past whispers:

Cherish the Now. Cherish the Here.

A lot of my work requires proofreading.

Today was one of those days. And that included searching for what I call “weasels” in a manuscript, those sneaky pests that represent repeats or bad grammar or the misspells.

I’ve always been a pretty good speller. Even won my 6th-grade spelling bee and qualified against the big-shot 7th and 8th graders.

I was kicking butt in the competition until I made a rookie mistake. As a rule, you can’t stop and start over. And that’s what I did, on an easy one. Instant disqualification.

The word? “Gorilla.”

I stuttered when speaking the letters, saying “G-O-RR-I…” and then started again. But nope. A bell rang. Game over. My world championship dreams vanished, and I was stunned. No second chances.

When I returned to class, my friends asked, “What word did you miss?” I wanted to tell them it was an archaic, seven-syllable monstrosity of French origin, spoken rarely since the 17th century.

But, no. It was freakin’ GORILLA. And I was too embarrassed to tell them.

To this day, misspellings haunt me — especially the G-word. I still flinch whenever I see or hear it. Those three syllables and seven letters are burned into my brain forever.

So yeah. Weasels. Me don’t like ‘em.

I’m 99.9% sure my 5th birthday party was at McDonald’s.

Imagine a small, brightly colored room packed with kindergarteners. Throw in some Happy Meals, frosted cake, and a mysterious orange drink — and that place became ground zero for craziness. Then it got even better. A certain red-haired clown named Ronald made his entrance with that creepy grin and ensured he’d haunt our dreams forever.

Good times.

The last time I attended a five-year-old’s birthday party was 13 years ago, for my youngest child. But today, I celebrated another one. For the sweetest little girl you could ever meet.

Blonde hair, dark eyes. A heart full of love. Always up for a cuddle, a walk, or a round of hide-and-seek.

Happy 5th Birthday to our fluffiest family member, a bundle of legendary licks, our Golden Retriever, Cali.

Think I'll grab her some fries from Mickey D’s. Old habits die hard.